Sweet Home Montana

by Shann McPherson

  But then the doubts started creeping into the back of my mind. I loved Colt. Irrevocably. I knew I’d never be able to love anyone else the way I loved him. But was I really ready at twenty years old to legally commit myself to one man for the rest of my life? I was still a kid. I had my whole life ahead of me. I’d dreamed of business school, and then I planned on building a career for myself in the city. But Colt hated city life. He had no intention of ever leaving the Canyon. Was I supposed to marry Colt, forfeit my dreams, and live happily ever after as nothing more than a rancher’s wife who gave up everything for the man she loved?

  I couldn’t do it. Anytime I so much as considered it, my mind would wander back to that time just before my mother’s death, when she made me promise that I would chase my dreams. I couldn’t stay. She gave up on her dreams to stay with my dad and raise a family, and look how that turned out. Granted, she was unwell, but I just couldn’t risk ending up like that. I owed it to my mother to live my life and chase my dreams, despite my love for Colt.

  My father was the only one who stood by me through my decision. Sure he told me what I did was wrong. But he still stood by me. And that was the third and final time I broke his heart. When I left. He could see it in my eyes when I said goodbye to him at the airport that day. He knew I wouldn’t ever be coming back, and that broke his heart.

  Maybe my father’s death wasn’t my fault, but I’d broken his heart so many times it was fragile because of me, and I can’t help but feel as if my hands are stained with his blood.

  ***

  I pull up to a parking spot in the middle of town, the rain relentless as it thunders down onto the roof of the car, so loud it’s almost unbearable. And, for the first time since getting onto the Delta flight back at JFK, the weight of everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours, the last ten years, comes crashing down around me. I grip the steering wheel so tight as if it’s my lifeline, bowing my head as a sob racks through me, hot tears falling onto my cheeks as I cry over everything I’ve lost. My father. My brother. My home. Everything my life was once about is gone. In one day it feels as if my whole life and everything I’ve ever known has literally been ripped right out from underneath me, and all I can do is cry.

  After a moment or two I somehow manage to pull myself together as best I can, sitting up a little straighter and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand when something catches my attention, flickering in the reflection of the rearview mirror. I turn, glancing over my shoulder, my bleary eyes finding the familiar neon sign of Duke’s flashing on and off through the darkness of the gloomy gray afternoon. With a deep breath that trembles through my emotions, I grab my handbag, pulling my hood back over my head, and I force myself out into the rain. I swear I’ve never been so desperate for a shot of whiskey in my life.

  Duke’s Saloon, the main bar in town, is the kind of place that can turn pretty nasty after dark when the cowboys show up to drink away their troubles. But it’s also a lot of fun. We used to come here when we were kids. Duke, the owner, would serve us even though he was friends with most of our parents and therefore knew our ID’s were blatantly fake. It didn’t hurt that I was the daughter of Royal Wagner. Growing up in a town like Black Canyon, where everyone knows everyone else, it was difficult to get away with too much trouble, but Duke let it slide. Many a night was spent underage drinking, dancing to the live band while having the time of our young lives right here at Duke’s, and I can’t help but smile at the long-forgotten memories playing through my mind as I walk into the saloon.

  Inside is quiet. Just a few die-hard locals perched at the bar nursing beers while an old country song twangs softly from somewhere in the background. I continue with my head down because I’m not sure I’m ready to risk showing my face around here just yet. If my own brother can’t even stand the sight of me, then I doubt the rest of the town will be very welcoming.

  I take one of the stools at the far end of the bar, placing my handbag onto the counter while I scan the shelves of liquor, sniffling back my earlier tears. I rifle through my purse, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill and gripping it with a trembling hand while waiting for service, which is when a curvy brunette with one arm completely covered in tattoos walks down from the opposite end of the bar, an enviable sway to her rounded hips.

  “What can I get ya, doll?”

  I clear my throat. “Crown. Straight up.” I place my money onto the bar. “And keep them coming, please.”

  She nods, an impressed glimmer in her eyes as she regards me a moment before grabbing a clean glass and the bottle of Crown Royal from the selection of colorful liquor bottles. She expertly pours my drink right in front of me, sliding it over with a smile. I drop it back, wincing at the afterburn as it trails its way down my throat, tapping the empty glass against the walnut counter, which she quickly refills.

  “You’re not from around here, huh?” She smirks at me, quirking a perfectly microbladed brow as she fills a second glass for herself.

  “What gave it away?” I ask with a perfunctory shrug, sipping my whiskey this time.

  She leans forward, looking over the counter, assessing me. “Gucci sneakers. Chanel purse.”

  “Girl knows her designers,” I say with one arched brow.

  “What can I say? I keep up with the Kardashians.” She laughs lightly, meeting my eyes as she drops back her own shot of Crown.

  “I used to be from around here.” I shrug again, offering her a small smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes, and something passes between us. I can tell she senses my sadness. “Not anymore …” I add dismissively.

  She stares at me, pressing her lips together, before holding her hand out. “I’m Rylie.”

  I look down at her long, pointed nails, glittery and perfectly painted. I meet her eyes once again, noticing the precise winged liner and thick lashes that must have taken her forever to apply. She really does keep up with Kardashians. And I like her. Not because of the Kardashians, but because she obviously chooses not to conform with a place like the Canyon. Tattoos. Winged liner. Neon nails. I like her a lot. I could be friends with a woman like Rylie.

  “Quinn.” I shake her hand.

  “So, Quinn …” Rylie leans forward, resting her elbows on the bar, steadying me with a penetrating stare. “What’s a Gucci-wearing gal like you doing in a dive like this?” She waves a hand in the air, indicating Duke’s Saloon.

  “I like this place.” I take in the familiar surrounds. “It reminds me of home.”

  Rylie watches me for a beat, and I know she can tell there is so much more to my story. But, like a well-trained bartender, she doesn’t pry; she simply waits until I choose whether or not I feel like she’s a complete stranger I can trust. Bartenders get this a lot. It’s part of their job. A prerequisite. To listen to drunk fools bitch and moan all day long about their problems while pretending to care.

  “Can I ask you something, Rylie?”

  She nods, offering a casual shrug as she tops up both of our glasses.

  I hesitate momentarily before suddenly asking, “Do you believe in redemption?”

  She blinks at me, and I guess the topic of redemption is pretty heavy for four-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. So I add, “Like, if a person’s done something terrible in their past, do you think they can really redeem themselves?”

  Rylie takes a sip of her whiskey, glancing up to the low-hanging beams in the ceiling for a moment. She narrows one of her eyes as if to seriously consider my question before finally meeting my stare once again. “I think it depends.”

  My brow furrows. “On what?”

  “On whether or not the person is an asshole.”

  I stare at her, not having expected such a brutally honest response.

  “I mean, you’re either an asshole or you’re not,” she continues. “Good people do shitty things. It doesn’t necessarily make them bad.” She shrugs again. “So, if you’re not an asshole, then I think you can definitely redeem yourself. But, if you are, then you
may as well just keep on being an asshole, because nothing’s gonna change the way you are.”

  I press my lips together, looking down at my glass. No words have ever resonated with me more.

  “But, Quinn?”

  I glance up again, meeting Rylie’s eyes with my own. She cocks her head to the side, offering an ever so subtle smile. “You’re not an asshole, doll. I can tell.”

  She offers me a conspiratorial wink before turning and heading over to a customer holding his empty glass in the air, and I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s just something about Rylie; I trust her. I like her. And, she’s right. I’m not an asshole. I just hope I can redeem myself. I need to at least try to make things right—for my father, my brother, for myself.

  But, right now, before I begin making anything right, I need to get drunk. I need to forget. And as I down yet another shot of whiskey, that is exactly what I intend on doing. Redemption can wait until morning.

  Chapter 4

  Two, maybe three hours later, I’m drunk as sin. So drunk, in fact, I can’t even find my damn lips to drink from the bottle of Miller Lite my cute new cowboy-friend bought for me at the bar after offering me a panty-dropping grin I’m sure works for him most nights with all the girls.

  That’s the great thing about cowboys. They come and go, from one town to the next, so often, a woman like me is a literal nobody to them. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know I’m Royal Wagner’s daughter. He doesn’t know I’m the girl who left Colt Henry at the altar. He has no idea the unimaginable pain I’ve caused to some of the people I love most in my life. This guy knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about him. He could be an ex-con for all I know, running from a jaded past like most cowboys who come through the Canyon. He could have a damn wife and kid back in some trailer park somewhere. Who knows? We’re strangers, he and I. And right now that’s just what I need. To be a stranger. A nobody. To forget everything, even if only for one night.

  Outside, the earlier downpour is nothing more than a few deep puddles on the ground, but the air is icy cold and thick with the threat of more rain. I shiver, my teeth involuntarily chattering together as I try to smoke the cigarette my cowboy has kindly given me. I don’t smoke. But I guess I’m smoking tonight. I’m doing a lot of things I wouldn’t normally do tonight, such as barely managing to keep myself upright, swaying unsteadily as I breathe a plume of toxic white smoke up into the inky night sky.

  Inside, the band continues playing an emotional, guitar-heavy tune that rings through the air, the music comforting on a night like tonight. But, out here, I’m all alone with my cowboy as he stands so close, one arm wrapped around my waist, keeping me from falling to the ground. And as the sad song drifts out through the saloon doors, I keep thinking back to the way Tripp looked at me back at the ranch. I’m not an idiot. I could see it in his eyes. He doesn’t just hate me. He despises me. In fact, I bet he’d rather I was dead right now, instead of our father. I know I hurt him with what I did all those years ago, I know what I did was wrong. I hurt Colt, I hurt my brother, I hurt everyone with my decision. But haven’t I paid enough for my mistake?

  “You okay, sugar?”

  I lift my chin to see the cute cowboy looking down at me, his lopsided grin faltering momentarily. And it’s at that moment that I realize I’m crying, my cheeks damp from my silent tears. I sniffle, shaking my head. I’m not okay. I’m far from it. My father just died. He’s gone. I’m not going to ever talk to him on the phone again. I’m never going to hear his gruff chuckle, the laughter he tries to hide through a fake cough. He’s just gone. And I’m here, drunk on a darkened street corner, with some random cowboy who so clearly just wants in my panties, smoking a damn cigarette.

  This is the last place I should be, right now, and it’s time for me to go before I do something I’ll no doubt have to add to the already long list of my life’s regrets. But as I turn, murmuring a goodbye, I start to walk away, but his hold on me tightens, and I stumble against his reluctance to let me go.

  “Whoa.” He takes the opportunity to wrap both his arms around me, pulling me even closer to him in the process. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

  Normally those words might sound sweet, endearing. He’s not going to let me fall. He’s got me. But there’s something in the way he’s looking down at me. Something in his darkening eyes. Something in the way his hands move down to my hips, holding me almost indecently, like a man shouldn’t hold a woman he’s only known for fifteen forgettable minutes.

  “I s-should go,” I stammer. “I need to get home …”

  “Home?” He scoffs derisively. “I thought you had a room here in town …”

  I try to move away, but his hold tightens so much that I’m almost sure my skin will bruise. I meet his eyes and when I catch something dangerous within his hard stare, something I don’t like, my fight-or-flight responses begin to stir, and I know I have to stand up for myself or else he’s going to think he’s won.

  So, with as much force as I can muster, I shrug out of his grip, causing him to falter just enough to lose his cool. And suddenly, my cute cowboy with the lopsided grin is replaced by a pissed-off jerk with fire in his eyes. He puffs his chest out, looking me up and down, and it’s clear within his dark gaze that no woman before me has ever fronted up to him. Lunging forward, he grabs my wrists, pulling me so close I can feel his hot breath on my skin, and it is at that precise moment that I’m reminded we’re out on a dimly lit side street, all alone, and I can’t help but think I might be in way over my head.

  “Let me go!” I yell, forcing myself not to cower beneath the weight of his intimidating glower, but it’s difficult. I consider myself a strong woman, but the look in his eyes alone is terrifying.

  He doesn’t say a word. Instead he throws me back against the side of the truck parked at the curb, flanking my petite frame, each of his hands planting on either side of my head. On the inside I’m petrified. I’ve never been in such a position. I know this could turn bad at any moment. But I’m also drunk. And with the alcohol comes Dutch courage that is strictly for show.

  “What are you gonna do, huh? You gonna hit me? Rough me up a little?” I quirk a brow, challenging him with a wavering smirk.

  He slams his hand against the metal right beside my head. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson, you little bitch …”

  “What did you just call me?” A sudden burst of fury sears my skin, bubbling just beneath the surface from his words, alone. Call me whatever you want, but bitch? That is one word I simply will not accept. Immediately, I see red. My trembling left hand balls into a fist at my side, and before I can even consider the consequences, that same fist is connecting to the side of his face, knocking him senseless, even if only for a moment.

  Unlucky for me though, he manages to collect himself with little effort, and before I can prepare myself for the impact, a big, calloused hand connects with my cheek with such force I can taste the metallic pang of blood in my mouth as silence rings through my head and my knees finally give way. With one slap he’s knocked me out of it. I can’t even see straight. It feels as if the entire left side of my face is on fire. But he keeps me upright, pinning me back against the truck, the back of my head slamming violently against the metal.

  His steely eyes blaze through the darkness, his top lip curling as he looks down at me in disgust. And I know this is it, this is my demise, but for some reason I can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s the liquor. Maybe it’s everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, the last ten years, but I laugh still, the sound empty, hollow, void of any humor.

  “Do it!” I hiss, tears spilling onto my cheeks, despite my maniacal laughter.

  With the way he’s looking at me, I’m almost certain he’s going to do it, whatever it might be. I’ve never been looked at in such a way. Like he could happily finish me, leave me for dead right here in the gutter, and sleep like a damn baby afterwards.

  But, before he can do anything, a shadowy figure
lurches out from the darkness, and in what appears to be slow motion, the cowboy is taken down in one fell swoop.

  What the hell?

  I stagger sideways, breathless as I try to compose myself, looking down at the two men grappling with one another on the pavement to the soundtrack of muttered curse words and bare-fisted knuckles connecting with bone. My mind is a haze of liquor, confusion and emotion. But then, my savior comes into the dim light of the nearby street lamp, looking up at me with one of his arms wrapped tightly around the cowboy’s neck, holding him in place. And everything stops.

  I’m rendered speechless, breathless, and everything in between.

  Colt.

  He forces the cowboy to look up at me, blood pouring from the man’s nose as he chokes against the thick, sinewy arm strangling him.

  “Do you know who that is?” Colt’s gruff voice breaks through the silence of the night, a threatening growl. He pummels the cowboy once more in his gut with his relentless fist until he answers him.

  “Who? Her?” The cowboy shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know—”

  “I’ll ask you one … more … time!” Colt says slowly, continuing his incessant assault. “Do you know who that is?”

  “No!” the cowboy cries, and I almost feel bad for him.

  “Tell him!” Colt shouts, not looking at me. “Tell him who you are, Quinny.”

  I stare down at the cowboy, his strength diminishing with every one of Colt’s strikes. His eyes bore into mine and I hold his gaze as I spit the remnants of blood from my mouth to the ground right beside him. “Quinn … Wagner.”

  Recognition washes over him at the mention of my surname, his face suddenly falling in stark surprise. Oh he sure knows who I am now. “I’m s-sorry. I’m— I didn’t know, I—” He splutters through his words.